Set after the couple ending of Fayt and Albel. There were a few things in game I wanted to expand on, so I wrote this. I don't think there are any warnings for this fic, aside from some for violence, but I'd be happy to add them if someone feels it needs a few more.

Communicate: "Oh, right... My translator was built into that communicator..." Fayt Leingod

Fayt breaks his communicator twelve days after the Diplo leaves him on Elicoor II. Or, to be more accurate, Albel breaks his communicator in a fit of technology induced rage after it beeps at him one too many times.

"Albel!" Fayt grabs Albel's arm (not the Crimson Scourge, though he wants to rip it from the man's grasp; he likes not being insane, so he doesn't touch that temperamental weapon) and heaves, gets the sword tip out of his only means of understanding this world. "Don't!"

Of course, he figures it's pretty useless trying to stop him now, because his communicator is already sparking ominously. "Oh, man, look what you did..."

Albel tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes. "Seeiour, moa?" he asks while he sheathes his sword.

When Fayt gives him a blank look, he peels his lips away from his teeth and says something else, something with a lot of vowels and not enough consonants and why in the world didn't Fayt at least try to learn the local language before telling Maria and Cliff they could leave him here?

Fayt spreads his arms and says, "I don't understand, Albel. My communicator was translating for me, and you broke that." He motions towards where his communicator has stopped sparking and gone a dire, dead red, and grimaces. "Thanks a lot, by the way. Was it making fun of you or something?"

"Moa," Albel says decisively, and sniffs. Fayt's pretty sure he's just been called a maggot, a worm, or a fool. Albel waves his left arm expansively when he catches Fayt's eyes again and smiles.

It's not a happy smile. It's one of those, "I'm thinking about killing people and giggling while I do it," smiles that make most sane people stay at least twenty feet away from Albel Nox on a good day.

Fayt crosses his arms and glares back at him. "Look, this is your fault, so you're gonna have to teach me the language, or something. Maria said they wouldn't be swinging around to check on me for a few months, at least."

That may have been too many words at one time, Fayt realizes. There's a glazed look in Albel's eyes. Great, he's just managed to confuse him.

"Moa," Albel spits eventually.

"Stop calling me a maggot," Fayt says tiredly.

He bends down to poke at the ruins of his communicator and grimaces. Yeah, he's not going to be able to fix that, at least not with the materials available here. Even Greeton's too far behind the technology in his communicator, which is just... great.

"Fayt," Albel says.

It takes Fayt a second to realize that's what he's actually saying, because without the communicator his name comes out kind of slurred, more like "Fay-yayt" than what it should be. "What is it, Albel?" He wonders if the way he pronounces Albel's name sounds just as funny to him. Probably.

Albel crouches down next to him and uses his clawed hand to prod at the dead piece of technology. He looks up, lets out a short stream of words, and tilts his head to the side when Fayt just stares at him blankly. He says something else then, red eyes going to dangerous, narrow slits, and gouges the claws on his gauntlet into the communicator.

If it wasn't already destroyed, Fayt would be a little worried for it. As it is, Albel's looking at him like he expects Fayt to understand whatever he's trying to say, and Fayt's just... lost. He never realized how dependant he is on technology until he'd come to this world, which has so very little of it.

He's not stupid, Fayt knows, but he doesn't really know how to pantomime that his translator, which let him speak whatever Albel's speaking, was in that nifty thing Albel just put his sword through. He's always been really, really bad at charades.

"Um, look, we're not going to understand each other miraculously," Fayt says. He stands up, which has the added bonus of putting him on a higher level than Albel for once, and rubs at his eyes. "Let's go to Kirlsa and see Woltar, I guess. Maybe he's got something that can teach me Elicoorian."

Albel tilts his head back and says, "Waltar? Cirlsour?" which sound enough like what Fayt's been hearing that he can nod gratefully and making a walking motion with two of his fingers. That nets him another blank look and the beginning of what he can tell is going to be a spectacular temper-tantrum.

Just what he needs.

"Cirlsour," Fayt says it just like Albel did, wrapping his tongue around the vowels. "Let's go to Cirlsour, Albel. Waltar should have... something for me to learn from, right?"

"Hmph," Albel mutters. He pushes himself to his feet and rests one hand on his hip. He points to himself and narrows his eyes. "Arrrrbel," he says, stressing the sound of the second letter, and, wow, Fayt hadn't realized the communicator had distorted that name so badly, if Albel was pissy about the way he was pronouncing his name.

"Arbel," he repeats dutifully, and then, because Albel's being picky about his name, he says, "Fate," and stresses just how short and to the point his name is. One syllable, not two.

Albel just smirks a little. "Fay-yayt," he mutters, turning away, and that's it, if Albel's not going to pronounce his name right, he's not going to do it for Albel's either.

"Albel," Fayt says, and narrowly avoids the claws that come swiping at his head.

He guesses, all things considered, that's it's pretty lucky that Albel managed to smack the distress signal on his communicator before he broke it. Cliff shows up a day or so later, with a bright, "So, I can kill your boytoy now, right?" and it's the first thing Fayt's understood in sixteen hours.

Unfortunately, it's also the first thing Albel's understood in a few hours. Cliff laughs loudly and (even Fayt's willing to admit) obnoxiously while he and Albel have a tussle over it.

Fayt just stands back, clutching his communicator like the Holy Grail. He's going to makes sure Albel doesn't get anywhere near the new communicator. Ever.

Write: Albel Nox's Writing Talent = 4

The first time Albel leaves him a written message, Fayt spends a good ten minutes staring at it blankly. He's more or less learned the Glyphian alphabet (which is different from the Aquarian alphabet, despite the fact that it amounts to the same language), but what he's got in his hands is... he'd hesitate to label it as anything approaching legible.

He thinks there might be the symbol for lum in there somewhere, but he knows for a fact Albel thinks the only thing the beasts are good for is eating.

"I'm confused," Fayt says to the empty room, and then jumps when he hears a chuckle behind him. Okay, so the room wasn't that empty.

"Albel's gone," Fayt tells Woltar when the man walks fully into the room. He tries very hard not to watch the way Woltar walks slowly and carefully and doesn't think about Albel telling him that the "rotten old man has a season left on him, maybe less, good riddance."

He's pretty sure Albel's fond of Woltar; it's pretty hard to hate the man who raised you after your dad died. Then again, Fayt thinks, blinking to himself, Woltar was also uncomfortably creepy when Albel had been chained up in the dungeon and Fayt? Has never quite been comfortable with the old man after that.

It has something to do with that dry, old voice telling him to ride the boy hard so that he'd get some exercise. Fayt shudders a little to remember it and resolutely stops thinking about it. At all. Ever.

"Did Albel leave you a note?" Woltar asks. His lips are twitching up into a smile, like he knows what the problem is already, so Fayt just smiles back a little and shrugs his shoulders.

"I think he's playing a joke on me," Fayt tells him.

Woltar glances at the piece of paper, then laughs to himself, takes it from Fayt, and flips it around. It still looks like gibberish to Fayt, but Woltar's nodding seriously. "He's improved somewhat, at least," he finally says, and then the old man squints at the paper and reads off, "Fool--Black Brigade requires my presence. Killing the worms. Return soon."

"You got that from," Fayt motions to the paper and its incomprehensible squiggles, "That?"

"It's quite a bit clearer than it used to be," Woltar says dismissively, and hands back the paper.

"Don't you nobles have to learn how to write when you're kids?" Fayt looks at the paper, but he still sees the symbol for lum, now upside down, instead of anything at all about the Black Brigade. "Doesn't he have to file reports or something? How can anyone read this?"

"The King knows that Albel was left-handed, and so allows him to make reports in person," Woltar offers. "His father never felt the need to force him to learn writing with his non-dominant hand. The boy's too stubborn to learn it now."

And now his left hand was pointy and destructive. Also, Fayt's pretty sure it lacks the coordination for really fine motor skills and he's never seen Albel do anything with his right hand but pull the Crimson Scourge out, which would explain the... mess on the paper. It doesn't help that Elicoorians still use brushes and ink to write with.

"It's... it still says lum on it," he mutters somewhat rebelliously, and tries not to think of how horrendous his writing would look if he suddenly lost his right arm.

Woltar folds his hands into the sleeves of his robes. "The boy's always had trouble distinguishing 'lum' from 'worm.' Glou thought it amusing."

Fayt is never going to understand Elicoorians, Albel, Woltar, or even the long-dead Glou Nox. Ever. He crumples the note in his fist and goes to find his sword. Chances are, Albel's idea of dealing with the Black Brigade was stringing up his soldiers and waiting for them to die.

Which Fayt objects to on principle.

"I'd better go stop him from killing your infantry," Fayt says when he finds Levantine.

"Do hurry," Woltar says peaceably.

Creepy old man.

King: "I, for one, am quite fond of him." King Airyglyph XIII

Albel manages to catch some sort of weird cold in Greeton. He then insists on traveling back to Airyglyph to suffer through it, because he hates Greeton almost as much as he hates the 4D Realm.

He hacks and coughs and wheezes his way through telling Fayt that it's only because Greeton is full of, "Useless little maggots, wriggling on their fat bellies like worms."

Fayt wisely doesn't tell him that if they use his logic, he's just been infected by worm germs. He sort of thinks that Albel would try to rip his tongue out, miss because he's sick and the Crimson Scourge thinks it's hilarious when Albel isn't feeling well, and end up skewering him or something. So he just packs their things up and finds a wagon to haul Albel's bitching form to Airyglyph.

"This can't be good for your cold," Fayt says a day later, when the cold wind and snow start to make their appearance.

Albel, bundled up like a particularly small child, scowls. "Weaklings don't survive long in Airyglyph," he says, like that makes any kind of sense at all.

Fayt's pretty much used to Albel not making sense, though, so he just twists his mouth and reaches over to tuck one of the man's ponytails back into the blanket. Albel grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, "fool," and leans his head against the side of the wagon.

Fayt doesn't say anything when that head migrates later to his shoulder, Albel grumbling all the while about nothing.

The royal castle of Airyglyph always has a room on hand for Albel (who finds it darkly hilarious that he's been assigned Vox's old quarters), so Fayt just has to get the man's rangy, sick form out of the cart and into the castle. No stairs to navigate at least, and it's not too long after that he's got Albel bundled into the bed.

Albel conks out pretty much immediately.

If he sits on the bed beside Albel's head and lets him burrow his way into his thigh, well, there's nobody around to see it.

Fayt tousles Albel's hair a little, just because it's so ridiculous. The blond ends clash with the darker roots and Fayt feels the same way about Albel's hair as Albel feels about his own. ("It's two-toned," he'd said flatly one day, to which Albel had responded, "At least it's not sky-colored, worm.")

There's the sound of a throat clearing in the doorway. Fayt closes his eyes tightly for a second, just wincing, and then he straightens his back and reminds himself that he's the physical embodiment of destruction. He should not be afraid of anyone on Elicoor.

The king of Airyglyph is standing just inside the room, one eyebrow raised. "My maid told me you'd brought Albel here," Arzei says, "But I had to see it for myself. I've never known Albel to be ill."

"Ah," Fayt says, pretty dumbly he thinks. It's just, sure, he'd gotten used to talking to royalty when he'd been running around trying to save the universe, but that was when he'd been trying to save the universe. He hadn't really cared much about how he'd come off talking to the king of a country.

And he's kind of sure that King Airyglyph the XIII thinks he's a brat that should have been put down before he drew the Vendeeni to Elicoor in the first place.

"He insisted on coming here to rest up," Fayt finally manages to get out. Albel makes a sort of huffing sound in his sleep and mindlessly shreds the furs with the claws on his left hand.

"I see," the King says. His lips quirk a little and he nods at the bed Albel's currently in. "Particular man. He climbed into my bed as a child when his father was in conference sessions," he says, almost fondly, "The maid threw apoplectic fits whenever she found him."

"You sound like you liked him when he was young," Fayt says vaguely. He's never really quite sure what to say to people when they start reminiscing. Add on that this was a king talking about what Cliff fondly refers to as "that psycho you're boning," and it's just weird.

"He was a sweet child," Arzei says nostalgically. He moves across the room with a swish of heavy fabric, closer to where Albel's mostly sleeping and Fayt's sitting on the side of the bed. "Though you wouldn't know it to look at him now."

Fayt tries to think of Albel Nox as a child and comes up with an image of a scowling little red-eyed brat trying to poke people with a dinner knife, shrieking shrilly about how everyone is a maggoty fool not worthy of him. Not what he'd call a cute kid.

"You let him use your bed?" he finally ends up asking, just because the King looks like he's waiting for another question. He also looks like he's going to get closer to the bed, which'll have the effect of making Albel bolt awake and attempt to skewer him.

Fayt shifts a little on the bed, rattles Levantine in what he really, really hopes doesn't come across as a threatening manner. He's trying to wake Albel up in the nicest way possible. Fayt's the only one who's allowed within a few feet of Albel when he's sleeping.

"He liked my furs, I believe. He's stolen them for this very bed, in fact." The King shrugs. "It's never letting Albel do a thing so much as it's accepting that you cannot change his mind and working around it."

"That's a good way to think about it," Fayt says.

Albel shifts against his thigh. "Shut up, maggot," he mumbles, and rolls over onto his other side. His claws pluck at the furs he's managed to shred before Fayt gives in and tucks one of the larger pieces around his shoulder.

"Take the time you need," Arzei says in response to Albel's muttering, "I have a... request, for when Albel is healthy again."

He leaves before Albel's snarled, "Request? No way in hell," floats through the room.

Fayt sighs heavily thunks his head against the wall. The last time he'd fulfilled a "request" for the king of Airyglyph, he'd ended up taking a week trekking between here and Aquios. He's inclined to agree with Albel on this.

Homeland: "Only those who have never gone hungry speak such foolishness as compassion for others. Or perhaps you are suggesting we can use that compassion to fill our bellies?" Albel Nox

The snow in Airyglyph gets worse and worse, until Fayt's finally forced to ask if it ever just stops. He'd been through Airyglyph in winter the first time around, or at least, he'd assumed it was winter, but the weather now is colder, harsher, and Fayt's half-afraid he's going to freeze to death in the middle of the night, even with a pile of furs, blankets, and one slightly mental bedmate.

It doesn't help that Albel likes to hang out on the parapets of the castle, in the snow and the wind.

"It's winter," Albel responds. He sounds like he's going to add an insult on the end of his sentence, then shrugs his shoulders a little and says, "It will get worse in a few days. There's a storm coming in, fool."

"How long does winter last here?" he asks when it looks like Albel's done talking. He supposes he sounds like he's whining, because he is. Albel has a long cloak on, which seems to keep him warm just fine, and Fayt has one as well, but he's still freezing.

Albel turns a baleful glare on him. "An average of six or seven months," he finally mutters.

That fits in with the geography of this place, Fayt thinks. The axial tilt of the planet meant that even when they weren't in full winter, they'd still be experiencing something a lot like it. Why anyone would want to settle this far south was completely beyond him.

Six or seven months must mean that the winter's coming to an end, though, and that means he'll be warm. Soonish. When the Traum Mountain Pass opens up and he can get back down to Kirlsa and beyond.

Fayt blinks as something occurs to him. "That must make food production hard."

He's just now realized that they've been eating less and less bread lately, that the soup's been thinned out, and yeah, he can get enough of it to be full, but he realizes with a jolt that everyone else had only taken their single serving of soup tonight without complaint and he'd eaten three.

Were they on rationing and he didn't even know it?

"What's the matter? Did you think we invaded Aquarian just because we could?" Albel sniffs and reaches over to push a clump of snow off the castle wall. Fayt hopes that there's nobody down there about to get pegged with a fast-falling snowball. "The people will be starving soon. The weak will die off before the thaw."

Albel's gotten a little thinner, Fayt realizes, and then feels sick to his stomach. It's not much, a sharpening of his cheekbones, maybe, but if there's another few weeks or even a month until the snow melts enough that merchants can bring food up through the passes, that's going to get worse.

"That seems a little harsh." Fayt thinks about the people he's seen today, the ones hurrying onto their lives in the castle and the ones he'd run into outside of it. There are a lot of people for this type of climate and that mean's Airyglyph's exceeded its ability to feed its people.

"I mean, you have a truce with Aquaria now, don't you? Couldn't you ask them for food?" he asks.

Albel snorts. "The Sacred Kingdom would rather the blasphemers perish, worm." He tugs his cloak tighter around himself and blows out a frosty breath.

"Nel would help, if we asked," Fayt says even though he knows it's stupid. There's no way Albel would ever ask a person for help and he's pretty sure the shaky truce between the two countries wouldn't extend to food.

"And in return, that dratted country would demand we dismantle our militias and leave ourselves open to retaliation when the passes open in the summer." Albel scowls at the wall and tosses his head. "We all starve in the winter, fool. The king as well. There is no food."

He's always thought of the war from Nel's perspective. Airyglyph had invaded her people and tried to steal their land, and that had hurt Ameena. It was all he could think about, to end the war quickly and decisively, with Aquaria the victor. He'd helped develop the runilogical weapon in the full knowledge that it would decide the battle between Aquaria and Airyglyph without Aquaria losing any more people.

Now he thinks of all these mountain people starving while Aquaria has more land and food than they know what to do with and something twists hard in his stomach.

"Forget it," Albel says when Fayt's been quiet for a while, and then he reaches out and takes Fayt's arm so he can drag them both inside. "The strong survive."

The castle's hardly warmer than the open air, but Albel just leads them resolutely towards the guest room that's been designated as theirs. "You're freezing," Albel says by way of explanation, deadpan and narrow-eyed to belie any expressions of concern. "Get under the covers and warm up before you die."

Albel had laughed at him the first time he'd started to strip down to sleep and Fayt knows why now. They sleep with everything on, enough layers to try to trap heat in, and he honestly misses technology more than he misses anything else from the whole universe.

He undoes the buckles on his shoes and slips under the furs without a word of protest. Well, not much of one anyway.

"You know, I'm not a child," Fayt grumbles while he scoots over so that his back is... near the cold stone wall. "I'm not going to die of a little cold. I've been through the Aquaducts."

"Shut up, maggot," Albel says curtly. He's already finished pulling his shoes off, heavy metal clunking audibly onto the rug in the room, and then he's sliding into bed right alongside Fayt.

He curls stiffly around him. Albel does most things stiffly when it involves touch, but he's also warmer than an oven most days. Plus, he's pretty careful not to gouge giant holes in Fayt's skin with his claw, and the metal of it warms up fast when it's in under the covers, so it's not so bad.

Oh, if his mom could see him now.

"Stop thinking and go to sleep," Albel mutters into the pillow above Fayt's head. He shifts and snarls under his breath, the claws flexing on Fayt's shoulder. "Feh."

He catches Albel handing a chunk of meat over to a little girl the next day. She's got hollow cheeks and a hungry, hunted look on her face. Her mittens almost fall off of her hands when she hesitantly reaches out to take the food Albel's offering.

She offers a little curtsy to Albel, which he proceeds to ignore, and then she stumbles off, presumably towards home.

Fayt watches it all from the door of the Wyvern's Tail.

In his own way, Albel loves his country and the people in it. He'd just pull the tongue out of a person's mouth if they said anything about it.

It feels like forever until the pass thaws out enough to allow travel.

"You've lost weight," Nel tells him that spring, smiling and concerned, while Albel narrows his eyes and twitches his fingers like he wants to bury them in her throat. That's normal.

What's not normal is how Fayt feels.

Fayt looks at her and can't help but resent the fact that she's spent a month in comfort and warm weather, that she hasn't seen the emaciated corpses of those that just couldn't get enough food to go on, and knows now why the Glyphians attacked her nation.

He looks away. "Yeah," he says.

Nightmares: "I dunno what kind of dreams you're having, but you scream all night long and it's annoying." Fayt Leingod

He may love him, but at his heart Albel's really just a self-loathing bastard who wishes his father hadn't died for him and that makes him a little hard to get along with. Especially when he wakes up screaming in the middle of the night and wedges himself into a corner, snarling wordlessly as he pants hard.

Fayt rolls over until he's at the edge of the bed and twists his mouth. "Albel?" he asks after a second or two, letting him catch his breath and wake up, if he's going to. Sometimes he sleeps through it all, reacting on autopilot.

It's not so bad if Albel wakes up. A few threats and he's climbing back into bed, ready to pretend to sleep for the rest of the night, at least. If he just minimally reacts to Fayt and acts confused, yeah, that's not a good thing.

"Shut up," Albel hisses. He raises his arm and uses it to hide his face, his metal claw as far away from his body as possible. "Shut up with your constant nagging, maggot, I don't need you."

"I know that," Fayt says.

"I could run you through right now and I wouldn't care," Albel mumbles into his palm, and Fayt helpfully does not point out that his katana is under the blankets on Albel's side of the bed. He has his claws. "You're just a pathetic, weak, pitiful worm."

He's pretty sure that last sentence is directed at Albel himself. "You're no picnic to get along with, yourself," he returns anyway. An Albel that gets lost inside his own head tends to get homicidal, fast.

The blank, red eyes that lift to meet his a second later confirm that Albel's pretty out of it. Auto-pilot, then. Which means he can't actually get up and haul the man back into bed, because if he tries that, Albel's liable to rip his head off on accident. Dammit.

"Nightmare?" Fayt asks pointedly. He sits up and sets his feet on the wooden floor. He can't remember the name of the town they're currently in, but he's surprised nobody's shown up to ask what the screaming's about.

Albel still looks blank, but then he blinks and shakes his head, his hair flying into an artful disarray that Sophia had always been jealous of. "Dragon," he says. He digs his fingers into his opposite bicep, just above where the metal gauntlet starts.

Fayt slips down to the floor in a crouch, down on Albel's level and purposefully smaller than the other man so he doesn't make him react too defensively.

Albel watches him, eyes a little hazy and unfocused in the way that means he's more watching the fluctuations of Symbological force than he is Fayt. He's still not fully awake though, because if he was, he wouldn't look that vulnerable while he did it.

He looks like he's looking for a dragon (the dragon, even, Crossel or that long ago air dragon who'd burned away Albel's life), tracking the ebb and whirl of the Symbological fluctuations in the room. Fayt waves a hand to catch his attention firmly on himself.

"I..." Albel says faintly, lost. "I'm burning." His hand digs into his bicep hard enough that the knuckles go white, but Fayt lets that be. He can't really hurt that arm anymore than it already is.

Instead, Fayt slides close and hooks an arm around Albel's shoulders, bumping his head companionably against the dark one. "No, you're not," he says. "I'm not burning or anything, right?" Albel smells like sweat and cold fear, the sharp bite of metal.

A shake of the head and Albel lets himself be held.

He won't remember any of this in the morning. He never does. That doesn't mean it's not important, though, Fayt thinks while Albel cautiously grips his shirt and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "Father," against his neck.

It's just a little annoying.

Woltar: "Rotten old man." Albel Nox

Woltar dies that spring. They get the news from Nel, who's standing in the Chapel when Fayt comes to find her, and he promptly turns around to find Albel and drag him off to the funeral. He might not have liked Woltar all that much, but he knows Albel grew up playing in the man's mansion and that Woltar was the one who took care of him after he lost his arm.

That means something, even if Albel didn't like the old man all that much.

Fayt stands by the pyre two days later and tries hard not to look at, move in the direction of, or even think about Albel.

Except that of course he's thinking of him, because Albel looks brittle next to him, like he can't quite wrap his mind around Woltar being dead, even though he's the one that had predicted it last winter. Fayt steals a look his way and grimaces when he realizes he can't see anything because Albel's hair needs to be cut.

"Stop staring, fool," Albel says out of the side of his mouth. He shifts to rest his metal wrist on the Crimson Scourge and scowls darkly at Woltar's wrapped body. "I'm glad the old man is dead."

Pull the other one, Fayt thinks. "I'm sure," he says instead.

Albel turns to fully glare at him and he's stupid if he thinks that Fayt doesn't see the pain in his eyes. "He was a meddling old fool, and a weak worm, to die of a disease." He spits that last word like it's personally offended him, which is possible.

The only way Albel the Wicked wants to die is with a sword in his hand, cut down by someone stronger than he is. It's Fayt's job to make sure he doesn't succeed in doing that by pissing off any and all minor lords they ever run into.

"He left you this mansion, you know," Fayt says, just to say something. Albel's never going to be okay accepting sympathy of any kind and Fayt doesn't want to field an offer to cut his tongue/eyes/bowels out today.

"Bah." Albel turns back to watch the pyre and the new captain of the Storm Brigade slowly approaching with the fire. "Sentimental maggot. What do I need a mansion for?"

"I guess he thought you'd want it."

"Hmph."

Albel's not crying when he turns away. But he lets Fayt put an arm on his shoulders for a few seconds before he shrugs it off.

Bed: "I'm tired of being kicked and woken up every night." Albel Nox

Sometimes, Fayt longingly thinks of his bed on the Diplo. It was hard as a brick and it smelled kind of funny and he's pretty sure Leiber had broken in once or twice to stare at him while he was sleeping, but he had it all to himself.

He didn't have to worry about kicking and getting a snarling, half-asleep bundle of issues trying to rip his face off. He didn't have to worry about the alternative either.

Fayt wakes up because it feels like he's got a ton of weight on his chest. He can breathe, sure, but it's hard and something sharp is wedged against his chest, and he kicks out sleepily before he realizes that whatever it is, kicking isn't really going to make it move.

It seems to mostly be concentrated on his chest and his stomach. And it's got a familiar, lanky, pointy feel to it.

"You're squishing me," Fayt mutters at the weight sprawled all over him.

The weight stirs. Fayt gets a mouthful of vaguely sweaty, greasy hair (Albel Nox does not believe in bathing during the winter) and Albel's head lands next to his on his pillow. "Deal with it, worm," he says blearily. His flesh hand flexes on Fayt's wrist.

"I shouldn't have to deal with it." Fayt tries to roll Albel free without moving too much. Not surprisingly, Albel doesn't go anywhere. Elicoor's weird gravity might mean that Albel hit adulthood weighing less than him, but he's still three inches taller. At least.

Fay huffs out a breath and stares at the ceiling. "You smell bad," he informs Albel. "Get off me." The hand Albel isn't clutching like a security blanket is asleep under the luke-warm, sharp metal of Albel's other arm (it's always surprisingly heavy, the heaviest thing about Albel).

He wants to rub his eyes. He wants to roll over and go back to sleep because the light filtering through their curtains is weak and grey and Albel usually sleeps until halfway to noon, so he's got time.

He can't do any of that with Albel using him as a new, improved mattress.

Albel chuckles against the side of his head. It sounds a little psychotic.

"You kick in your sleep," Albel tells him dryly. He lets go of Fayt's wrist and digs one skinny elbow into Fayt's stomach. "This way, you can't kick me, maggot."

You scream in the middle of the night, Fayt thinks mutinously. I don't gag you while you're sleeping.

"If you kick me again, I will kill you," Albel murmurs into his hair.

"Embodiment of destruction, here," Fayt mutters back at him. He tilts his face and uses his free hand to brush Albel's hair off of his nose. "You couldn't even if you tried."

Albel snorts, a warm puff of air against his cheek.

He tries to make himself comfortable, and can't. Albel gives another muffled snicker into his hair, but he does roll onto his side far enough so Fayt can pull his sleeping arm out. He might end up wrapping it around the man's skinny waist. Maybe.

Albel doesn't say anything about it.

He does nuzzle in to Fayt's temple a little bit.

Fayt freezes, because Albel never, ever touches just for the sake of touching; there's always something hiding behind it, some weird motive and not just affection, but. Soft skin and grungy hair against his cheek. The slight tension coiling through Albel, like Fayt's going to object to it or something.

Fayt takes in a deep breath and holds it.

There's a brush of lips against the side of his forehead. A second later, Albel settles on him again, bonelessly. "Go to sleep, worm," he says, and he sounds embarrassed.

Fayt turns his face to the other side to hide his grin.

He's still squished. But it's a little worth it, if it makes Albel do things like that.

Trust: "It's alright. I trust you." Fayt Leingod

Going into battle with Albel is always a little like sticking your fingers in a very large, shoddily trained dog's mouth. One with rabies. Sure, one out of ten times the dog might not bite your hand off, but who really wanted to take that chance?

Albel's all whirlwind fury in battle, here and gone, in your face and out of range without seconds. Fayt remembers fighting him that first time; the only reason they'd won is because there were three of them and Albel only had two mindless soldiers for his backup.

As it is, you either move out of Albel's way or you get skewered.

Fayt grimaces and mutters to himself when one of Albel's claw strikes comes a little too close to him. "Watch what you're doing!" his hisses over in Albel's direction.

Albel tosses him a slightly psychotic grin. The man Fayt's trying to beat into submission gives him a confused look and says, "Should you really be helpin' me dodge you, kid?" He looks honestly confused, holding his sword like he's used to holding a piece of wood instead.

He thinks bandits are kind of pathetic, which is why he tries to leave them alive and with all of their limbs intact. His comrade's got no such merciful tendencies.

Fayt slips on something simultaneously squishy and hard and almost goes down. He doesn't look at it, because he's stepped on one too many severed limbs in his travels and, God help him, he knows what they feel like through his boots now.

The bandit he's fighting goes absolutely white when he glances down, though, and then he throws his sword on the ground and bolts. Fay plants Levantine's tip in the grass and leans on it, mouth twisted sardonically. He'd run to, if he'd been faced with Albel in all his gleeful, blood spilling happiness.

"I thought I asked you to be easier on them?" Fayt asks when it looks like Albel's done poking at the remaining, faintly moaning bandits. They're still alive. Barely.

Fayt sketches a little healing symbology their way and hopes Albel doesn't notice the gaping wounds closing enough to keep them from bleeding to death.

Albel cocks his head to the side. "What are you babbling about now, worm?" he asks. His voice is calm, though, sated, and Fayt can't help the fond little smile that curls up across his mouth. Crazy man. The two bandits he hadn't fought moan softly behind Albel and Fayt's smile slips a little. Crazy, psychotic man.

"Nothing, I guess. It's just..." he nudges one of the arms near his foot and holds back the urge to spew his breakfast. "It's weird that you, of all people, would cut someone's hand off."

"Hmph." Albel prods at one of the moaning bandits with his boot. "Weak little fools like this only learn through pain."

He's not going to draw parallels with Albel losing his own arm in dragon fire. He's not. He pulls his sword out of the ground and sheathes it, ready to move on.

Fayt raises his eyebrows a little when Albel suddenly cocks his head to the side and slides the Crimson Scourge free with a snick of well oiled metal. Albel stalks closer, this kind of rolling, low-slung prowl that looks almost exactly like a lion hunting.

There's a twinge in his legs, but Fayt stays put. It's not like Albel's going to skewer him or anything.

The Crimson Scourge comes flying at his chest, but slides past at the last second, into something that makes a pained grunt behind Fayt. Fayt doesn't turn around to see what it is; he'd left his bandits alive. It's possible one of them had gotten up to try attacking him again.

Albel pulls his katana free, ripping it to the side in a way that's guaranteed to maximize pain before death, and then just stands there, looking at Fayt.

"You didn't flinch," Albel says. He sounds puzzled, and Fayt grins. It's always a good day when he can completely confuse Albel the Wicked without even trying.

"I told you before," Fayt says, "I trust you." He says that last part slowly, like he'd heard his Dad talk to what he'd thought were particularly thick interns.

In reaction to that tone of voice, Albel's left hand comes up to hover menacingly just over Fayt's cheek. Fayt doesn't flinch.

Albel's claws land on his flesh and flex, hard enough to leave four searing lines of almost-pain.

"Still a dreamer," Albel spits out, "I could rip your eyes out right now, fool." The claws inch towards his right eye. Fayt would be a lot more freaked out if Albel were smiling, but he's not, and that means he's just pushing because he has to, because his mind can't wrap around anyone thinking he's worthy of anything.

"Yeah, maybe." Fayt brings one hand up to curl around Albel's metal wrist and tugs it down. It sort of proves his point when Albel lets the entire hand go lax to avoid accidentally scratching his face up, but Fayt doesn't point that out. Too much. "But you won't."

"Oh?" Albel asks, "And why not?"

Fayt grins. "Look, if I've got to spell it out for you, I don't think you'll ever get it." Fayt rolls his shoulders back a little bit and carves a quick healing symbol in the air to take care of the lingering sting on his cheek.

Albel's mouth is twisted in something like confusion, so Fayt leans forward a little, carefully, slowly, and kisses it flat.

He gets a thrill deep in his belly when Albel lets him.